There have been countless times when I've wanted to give up on love, and yet I can't. In a city like New York, the potential for love is always in the air. Everywhere I go, I see lovey-dovey couples, and I am reminded that the last three men who I fell for did not feel the same way about me.

The latest obsession is the Chef, a short guy with a big macho attitude. Over wine one evening I said that I could never be friends with men whom I am attracted to, and he said, “Well, we are not dating, we are friends."

I asked the Chef if he ever thought about settling down—after all, he is 45. What happened to the cabin or apartment he wanted to buy? He said it was a passing fancy, just like I was. He said he was too wrapped up with work.

I come up with excuses for his not being ready, but maybe I should accept that he’s not interested. Thing is, I feel indebted to him. The Chef helped me out during the worst of times. He helped me move the dozens of bags up the fifth-floor Spanish Harlem walk-up. He helped comfort me after the botched swimming race.

I wonder if I am like Patty Hearst suffering from Stockholm Syndrome, where one gets attached to his or her captors. In return he's gotten a female companion at night. I've not gone to fourth base, but with all that's happened I now feel used. I want to be treated well, to not feel second rate.